


hollow out your empty heart

by asmilemingledwithwrath



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I'll add the characters as they come, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmilemingledwithwrath/pseuds/asmilemingledwithwrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>they don't realise</i>
  <br/>
  <i>that you are your own antagonist.</i>
</p>
<p>You'd say you're a joke, but at least those make people laugh.<br/>You just make people tired.<br/>(Mostly yourself.)<br/>--<br/>Chronicles of a Frisk and a timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's no honest way out

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea whether this needs a 'graphic violence' tag or not lmao...
> 
> this is centralised almost entirely around something that's probably something like depression so please be aware that this is likely going to be a bit of a rough ride and i pre-emptively am just going to apologise for Everything
> 
> because i know i'm going to be touching on subjects that are commonly triggers i will be leaving notes mentioning them when applicable but for things like self-loathing and such i think will be prevalent through all of this so i don't think i can specifically caution about that
> 
> **that being said:**  
>  the very end of this chapter has both a reference to a character's urge to hurt themself as well as a suicidal thought/comment (not actively but i'm like 90% sure this counts so)

_The more you distance yourself, the less you will hurt._

 

_God,_ you wished you actually had any tenderness in your heart.

What is truly within is a cold, vast chamber of dying coals with embers you're desperately scraping to keep alive, even if you have to burn your fingers doing it, because God knows scorched palms and peeling skin is more than worth the warmth of the smallest fire in there.

The capacity to care is something that you handle like fragile glass, because what should come easily (and it does, too easily, you’re too giving until you’re not) fades fast. You don’t want the deserted remnants of emptiness.

The voice in your head wonders idly, morbidly, offhandedly, what his bones would look like powdered into dust on the polished floor, and you don't quite wonder with them - but you don't find yourself feeling any personal hint of distress at the thought, either.

(You know that they're not serious, that they're only attempting to get a rise out of you, but...

The reality is that even if they’re kidding, your reaction is already telling you that what you’re afraid of is coming.)

And _that's_ the part that distresses you, more than anything.

When did you stop being able to care?

[long ago, really.

you had just gotten it back, too.]

 

 

you killed a monster, this time. you think they might almost be disappointed in you. god knows you are.

you guess it's something.

it doesn't really matter, does it?

not because you can RESET. (in the back of your head, not the voice there but the echo of a memory that could become - _Do you think you are above consequences?_

of course you're not. you never have been, and you never assumed you would be.)

you're just not a very good person.

even if, for a little while, you had managed to make everyone else think otherwise.

 

 

you're so tired.

even with someone else using your body, when all you need to do - when all you _can_ do is rest, you're _tired,_ and you don't know why.

he keeps calling for you, the skeleton.

_don't bother,_ you want to say.

_listen,_ you want to say. _this is something **i** chose for myself._

_don't hate them - they were making progress until i ruined it, until i showed them the human they thought might have been good was rotten to the core._

_blame me._

but you're tired, so you don't.

(you feel like you should care, but you genuinely can’t bring yourself to. you haven't even sold your heart, yet; it's frustrating, more than anything.)

 

 

maybe if you were another you, you'd try to fight their grip on your shared form.

but, really... you don't have the energy.

what's the point, anyway? whether entropy brought about the end of the universe or they did, it was going to end at some point, right?

...

god, how does nonexistence still exhaust you?

you don't even know if you want the timeline back.

(you think they can tell that, even as they offer its return for the SOUL that didn't seem to be doing you any good in the emotion department anyway.)

 

 

You are so tired, and you are _so angry._

Not at your counterpart, really. Not at anyone but yourself.

What the hell were you doing? What the hell HAD you been doing? Killing everyone? Why? Good god, there was a litany of a list of stupid ideas, but 'mass murder because, I mean, I guess I hoped it’d make me feel sad or something, maybe' might have just stolen the trophy from the case and ran home with it before the competition had even started.

You want to say you don't know what came over you, but you're pretty sure it's just some sort of cosmic-aligned stupidity combined with a blind, ridiculously animal _desperation_ that was a part of you all along - certainly more than this voice that had became your companion until you _ruined everything for literally no fucking reason._

(Since when the hell had murder solved or helped anything, anyway? What, were you Flowey? Oh, wait, no you _weren’t_ , because you were the one that helped remind him that things _weren’t kill or be killed. What a coincidence._ This was the worst excuse in the goddamn world. Which, you suppose, is fucking fitting since you're the worst _person_ in the goddamn world.)

You look at the dust-covered knife your partner has been toting around, and wonder if they would be altogether opposed to you taking back control just to punch yourself (not even them, specifically _yourself_ ) in the face with it.

It's the most fervour you've felt in days.

(More than that, surely.

Who knows how long has passed while you slept. It’s not as if anyone is missing you.)

 

 

it's not that you necessarily want to die.

but... there's a reason you barely flinched when mettaton loomed over you with his chainsaw.

(you don't know if you necessarily want to live either.)


	2. i made a mess out of what should be a small success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see it's funny i called this fic a chronicle in the summary because actually this is a chronological mess and nothing is really in order
> 
> this one is one of the shorter ones i think?? honestly these things aren't altogether told that long at all i believe the longest was 1k so far? i don't know if that's gonna change or nah but hey for now hopefully you all enjoy these tidbits!!

It's sick, it's sentimental. It's also wholly you.

You were so _tired_ of being apathetic.

Of course you'd keep RESETTING, hoping to keep that feeling intact.

(But you think you just broke it worse.)

 

When you first fell underground, you weren't really scared.

But Flowey confused you, bewildered you, and the pain of something attacking your SOUL, the metaphysical manifestation of your very self rather than the nerves wrapped throughout your body - well, _that_ was new.

The voice in your head was new. The monsters were new.

For once in a long, long time, you were excited.

 

But then the story was over. Then, _then_ you got scared.

What if the end would spell the end of you finally feeling again, too?

You, more than anyone else, knows how Asriel must feel, you think.

So let him keep feeling, again.

Let YOU keep feeling, again.

 

You RESET.

 

Chara doesn't understand.

They didn't even realise you were going to do it.

You're not surprised - you've always hid things well, even from yourself. Why should your headmate be any different?

They're angry. They're sick - they feel ill, can't believe they thought a human could be good.

You turned it all back for no real reason.

_You are a selfish, awful being after all. Just like all the others._

You feel bad. But you don't - can't - stop.

 

The same wonder and excitement that gripped you the first time doesn't come back.

( _Once you know the answer, that's it._

_That's all they are._ )

You're scared, and you're almost happy you're scared, because at least you're something other than _tired_ and _empty_ and _used to it_.

You try again.

And again.

And....

 

Don't they say something about trying the same action expecting a different result?

(It's not a good thing.)

You're just tired, now.


	3. no one's gonna save you from yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops this one is actually even shorter than the last chapter
> 
> **warning** for self-loathing/self-disgust/basically insulting yourself i'm not sure if there's proper terminology for that but it's there

He thinks it's their fault.

_don't worry, --,_ he says, your name lingering unspoken in the pause between his sentence because he's not supposed to know it yet. Know you yet. _we'll figure it out and stop 'em._

 

You

correct him

gently tell him

try to explain

but you don't.

You're a coward, and you can't bring yourself to speak the truth.

(Chara is silent in your head.

They're the only one that knows what you're like, now.

They don't like what they see.)

You don't want Sans to look at you and feel what they do.

[no matter how much you deserve it.]

 

 

You know him well. He knows you--

not so much.

(He thinks

you're innocent

when you're the last on that list.)

You think

if you told him

[about how tired you are, how much you never want to do anything, you're so useless, you tried to save the world and then you turned it back so you could maybe feel again, even flowey didn't do that. (though not for lack of trying.) you turned it back so you wouldn't have to face the world, didn't you, _you lazy awful piece of shit--_ ]

then he would understand.

But maybe he would understand too well, and he would realise why you keep avoiding his gaze when he mentions _them_.

(It's not because you're scared of Chara.)

 

 

He doesn't realise

that you are your own antagonist.

(You think you would rather keep it that way.)


	4. already choking on my pride so

Listen.

Here's how it goes.

You want something you don't know how to get.

You want to give your friends a happy ending

but the idea of feeling nothing for them

of no longer caring if they are hurt or not

scares you.

 

So listen.

Here's how it goes:

You do your best to change that instead, and hide underground as if maybe the magic will leach out of the earth and bleed into you and that won't happen.

 

it's the worst when you really _do_ stop caring.

you knew it was coming.

you tried to change it

but history repeats.

history always repeats, steady as a pendulum.

emotion, indifference, emotion, indifference.

you should have seen the pattern and never allowed yourself to hope.

(you can't change it. you only broke your own missing heart.)

 

flowey.

he knows, you're sure, exactly how you feel--

maybe even better than sans, because sans cares about his brother at least.

but he remembers.

and _you_ remember the confused disappointment in his gaze when you met him at the start of the underground again.

(you can't fool him. he won't assume this is his sibling's doing on his own, and outright lying by anything other than omission is too much guilt for you to swallow down.)

 

 _Frisk?_ he asks.

 _Why are you back here?_ he asks.

you don't - you can't - answer him.

(chara's righteous silence rings like a knell, like the court's gavel sentencing you in the back of your head already.

their brother's additional judgement would _kill_ you.)

 

so you say nothing.

so, he doesn't understand where you're coming from after all.

(even though, you know already he tried to do exactly what you did.

but

he stopped. when _you_ SAVED him.

you already know you're awful for doing this, knowing full well you had halted asriel from the same.

but

who would want to SAVE you?)

 

 

so this is how it goes, in the end:

when you have driven yourself in more circles than you can bear,

when you give up even the last inch of integrity you had left and kill a monster -

when you kill _every_ monster

 

flowey

refuses the story

and tries to change both your and chara's mind, instead.

(he's supposed to enjoy this tale - but he already knows his sibling is here

and _you_ were the very one that taught him it wasn't kill or die.

you guess that makes it some kind of cosmic irony that he's trying to stop you both now.)

 

 

in the back of your head - your home now - you let out a sigh that only the one you betrayed can hear. (but you guess there's a lot of ones you betrayed.)

you wish for a lot of things.

but mostly, you wish you weren't made out of a hierarchy of ever-escalating erring; fear getting the best of you and leading you into this self-destructive loop that your counterpart, your friends, your everyone paid the price for along with.

 

you're so tired.


	5. but i will reap the seeds that my hands have sown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled: "if i had made this the name for flowey's chapter it absolutely would have been a pun and i can't stop smiling about that"
> 
>  **warning** for emetophobia, thoughts of self-harm (and the imagery of being burnt) as well as something that might be a little mention of a negative body image?? but not really by much i just figured i'd warn anyway just in case

_Be good, my child._

chara smiles and laughs, sickly sweet and terribly obscene for how much the brittle, awful sound shouldn't have belonged to them.

it's empty.

the expression has no joy, not truly, not really; and knowing _you_ were at fault, that _you_ pushed chara to this because you taught them humans could never be good even if they had so stupidly allowed themself to believe otherwise

well.

at least you aren't too tired to feel guilt.

(the fact that you know chara finds their parent telling them to be what they're sure they cannot hilarious on a hideously ironic scale only digs in the reminder deeper.)

 

toriel runs her paw through your hair, soothing and kind and warm like what you crave, what you chased until you had ruined all chances of reconciliation, of salvation, of _fixing things_

and you wish nothing more than that you could deserve it.

(chara reminds you that what you have done is unforgivable. no love can erase what LOVE has destroyed.

you know.

you always were a fuckup.)

 

 

You used to think, maybe you would finally find out what a mother should be like.

You used to think, maybe this was what it was like to be a family.

 

You listen to the snail facts with an avid ear, and you don't let yourself drift, because this is interesting to Toriel, and you will not dismiss anything she finds fascinating.

Even if you already knew snails were molluscs. Even if you already knew that they made horrid shoelaces.

Even if you knew the contents of that book inside and out.

 

You don't want to leave the RUINS.

(Chara

doesn't care.

You try to ask their opinion, but the narrator gives you nothing but a narrow-sharp silence you haven't experienced since before they were in your head.

They _hate_ you, now.

You understand.)

You don't want to go, so you don't ask her.

And she is happy.

You're glad that she is.

 

But she wasn't wrong, that time;

the Ruins

really are no place

for a child.

 

 

It's not that there's anything unsafe here.

( _Anything other than you, anyway,_ the commentary notes with lilting faux-delicacy, feigning tiptoeing when they're really stamping right on top the subject.)

But that's in truth the problem.

You're _bored._

 

It makes you feel horrible to even think that, the briefest tendrils of the thought rising to actualisation and then being snuffed out in mere seconds as you mercilessly crush it within your grip.

How could you be bored of _this_? Idyllic life, shelter and warmth and no one to hurt you, even the monsters greeting you as companions without bothering to spar anymore.

She loves you.

You have a family.

Even if it's just one of the many friends you had adopted, even if the reunion is truly incomplete.

(You wish that at least this would make Chara happy.

You know they missed her.

But all they give now

is that same weighty, stony flatness.)

 

You can't help anyone.

 

 

Toriel is baking a pie.

She does that often, really; but today is a new occasion, because this is not butterscotch-cinnamon nor snail.

You had asked her what it was instead, fingers briefly and hesitantly hovering over the already-covered crust, but she had simply smiled and winked at you, almost exaggeratedly.

 _It is a secret!_ She had giggled. (You felt a pang in your chest; the lack of contraction only reminded you of--)

 _I can't wait to see,_ you smile.

Lovingly, she bends down and presses her muzzle against your forehead, white fur tickling your skin; and then she is up again, crackling magic igniting at her fingertips - so much more gentle than the blaze that had scorched your SOUL once now, twice now, five times, seven, battles stacking up and up and up - as she wreathes the tin and pastry in it right on top of the counter. She gives you another pat on the head and then departs, leaving it to bake for as long as she needs it to.

 

You watch the pie slowly crisp golden-brown, you watch the magic boiling away, changing 'raw' to 'cooked', and you're suddenly struck by the idea, the concept, the strongest _urge_

to shove your hand right into the flames.

It's a terribly morbid not-quite thought, but despite that you know comes from you, not Chara - not in the least because it's not in their voice. You already know you yourself can be just as terribly grim, even if your first reaction is to deny it.

 

So.

You think about shoving your hand in and watching the skin blister like the surface of the pie.

No, that's not quite right--

You think about shoving your hand in, and feeling the scorching pain, the crackling agony as your nerves fire alarm at you and scream for you to pull out, draw back. (Chara would have loved that pun.)

Being burnt isn't a pleasant venture, but you feel a certain spiteful joy to the concept.

You deserve it, after all.

You've earnt it, after all.

(Awful, cruel, needlessly tormenting, these monsters are stuck here because of you, because of _you_ , **_all because of you_** , you pathetic clingy creature--

...

You never liked your stupid body, anyway.)

 

 

You don't do it, in the end.

The thought lingers as you continue watching the food cook, but you make no move to reach up to the counter. You make no move at all, in fact.

You simply sit there, and you stare at it as if it were the most absorbingly interesting TV show, until Toriel comes back into the kitchen.

 

You can't take this anymore.

False life, fake affection - not from her, never from her, but _you_.

You look at her like a stranger, now.

This isn't how things were supposed to go.

You try again.

 

 

she falls

like any other.

you've seen this before. not too many times to count, not yet-- but you can barely bother to try and recall how many it's been.

(you remember what it was like when you _weren't_ just watching.

you had been shaking, you had fallen over beside the pile of dust that had once been beloved, once been family, and you'd retched and you'd _retched_ , gagging over nothing with just as much coming up; not because the deed had made your empty SOUL ache with regret, but because you were supposed to _love her_ but you felt _nothing at all_.

chara hadn't been kidding when they called you a horrible thing.)

 

you remember

when you had hoped that you could be happy together.

with her, with him, with them.

you remember hoping chara would relent from the company

but of course

justice or vengeance or maybe in the end both, has always pulled their DETERMINATION to its absolute limit.

(their family would only benefit from it, after all, so that was no deterrent.

and even if, now, they are sure the justice to be meted is on you, on themself, rather than anyone else.

 

humans have always been the worst menace to monsterkind, anyway.)


	6. i think i lost my halo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i appreciate your sympathy, but it will always be lost on a thing like me._
> 
>  
> 
> **warning** for self-harm, implied abuse or self-harm also, implied suicidal thoughts, self-loathing (do i need that? i guess that's been kinda prevalent through all of this but anyway)

In the end, you know why you killed them all.

You were _angry_.

Angry at yourself the most, angry at the world maybe, but angry at _them_ , as well, irrational though it was.

(It wasn't as if it was their fault that you were so broken.)

 

So

you started killing in the end out of fearful frustration.

Because--

You didn't like doing this.

But you had to

because maybe

just _maybe_

your weightier guilt, the sensation of sins digging a harsh reminder against your spine, would drive you to care again.

(If hurting them didn't change you again, what would?

 

well.

you suppose you got what you wished for.)

 

 

But maybe

you were furious as well.

You hate to so much as touch on the idea, even now, even knowing what kind of person you are--

But you think, you might have almost spitefully enjoyed it, a little bit.

Because stupid though it was, you think maybe, you might have blamed them just a little for your apathy.

(And you hate that thought.

Good people don't blame their friends for things like this. It's not like this was anything to do with them.)

 

At the very least, you knew you took it out on them - even though it had always been on you and your awful brain.

And once you did?

You didn't even have the courage to tell the truth.

You're _lying_. You're hiding.

(and isn't that a familiar path to follow?

you wonder if she would be able to help at all, but..

you don't want to ask.

you meet her too late, anyway.)

 

 

Funnily enough, she figures out something is wrong without you.

(You should have known the Royal Scientist would realise something was amiss.)

 

You don't know each other that well.

(Well, _you_ do-- But she's only watched you on a screen.)

Mettaton is still nestled patiently within the wallpaper, ready for his dramatic entrance - you have, in truth, only just met her.

But

she looks at your glazed, tired eyes

at your hunched and slumped shoulders, steps firm only because a stagger would take more energy than you have to give (too much concern, you're fine, you're fine, _yes_ you're fine)

and she sees, and she _knows_.

Alphys understands, not what is happening exactly - not what is happening at all - but she understands this: that you

are not

okay.

She offers you a chance to rest, rather than following her usual script--

And you could almost cry. (You do cry, in fact.)

You didn't think you had been that obvious, but you almost don't feel like concealing it matters, right now.

 

 

So.

Two screwups walk into a bar... What happens next?

(That was a really mean thing to think, and you feel a little bad that you referred to Alphys like that.

Chara notes that after the first few pointless RESETs, you had already gone above and beyond that.

Thanks, Chara.)

The answer to that question is, 'better things than you might think'.

But because you're such a desperate fuckup, 'not good enough'.

 

 

bite marks, red and angry, as angry as you are, even; some hard enough to bruise, some surely planning to fade in due time - but never hard enough to break skin, not out of unintention, not as if you have a line you do not want to cross but you simply don't have enough DETERMINATION to - litter your arms under your dusty sweater.

(chara, it seems, finds the way your muscles throb from your own blunt human fangs seizing themselves in your flesh with frustrated recklessness borne out of rage far more familiar than you think they should. they shrug it off even better than you do.)

you

**_hate_** yourself.

 

 

alphys is running frantic, doing everything she can to save as many monsters as possible from the relentless void you and chara keep bringing unto them, as if they'll ever be able outrun ragnarok, the apocalypse of the very timeline, pointless rapture in a pointless loop that you can't even be bothered to try to end, because it's just easier to have matters taken out of your hands. all you have to do then is accept it.

( _are you having **fun** yet, frisk?_ chara sometimes asks you with a dark, empty smile, pointed and mean. _we are resetting over and over; just like you wanted._

it's so venomous you can almost feel it stinging in your veins.)

 

you know alphys is like you. you know what she's done; how much she's screwed up.

what she considers, on her worst nights.

so what you don't understand is

how she musters up the strength to protect the remnants of monsterkind so fiercely even with her (not yet, not here, never here, now) girlfriend's dust staining your hands in a way that's even worse than blood, because dust _glitters_ in a way that's almost pretty, glimmers like moth powder on your palms and you look at it every time knowing it will never come off, knowing even if chara put it there this time, that _you_ contributed to it.

(you are the one who sits and watches as rome burns.

you could try to help, you could have simply not lit the match in the first place

but you didn't

and now look at what you've done.

a tired saviour watching as the empire they should be defending is torched by their own hand, _of_ their own hand.

you won't blame this on chara.)

 

you want to place your dusty, dirty hands upon her squat lizard shoulders, gentle touch that tightens into a predator's grip (because that's what you are now, a hunter, a killer. grey never looked so painful.) and then _shake her_.

_how the heck do you do it,_ you want to scream at her - and you feel the slightest tinge of laughter at the idea of shouting 'heck' instead of 'hell', 'freak' instead of 'fuck', because you've been letting chara murder everyone just so you could sleep in the back of your head for reset over reset now, innocent is the last quality to describe you, but your first thought is still to avoid swearing even as much as you think it? - you want to tell her _help me, teach me how to do what you can, how can you **care** even after all this time, _ hands flying wildly in motion except they don't because that never happens and you never even see her in those timelines (and maybe you should search then but chara is in control and you truly find the idea of having to _be_ corporeal so much _effort_ ) and you just

want to feel something

that isn't the baseline definition of "awful".

 

you don't know what to do.


	7. but in the end i learned it rains in hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and angels could be **bad.**_
> 
> so we've gotten to the end of all the chapters i had pre-written at some point or another! to be honest, this one was ready a day prior too, but i felt like maybe there should be a chapter in between to pad it out. i didn't really have inspiration for it, though, and when it went from 'i want this' to 'i guess i should do it??' i was like, _wait,_ what the heck am i doing i don't need to drag it out  
>  and so!! i threw that chapter in the trash and here this one is instead! i think my revised plans will go much better and more smoothly, and i'll be able to enjoy writing them all! i hope you guys enjoy this one too!
> 
> **warning** for suicidal thoughts, self-loathing like everywhere which i guess is still something that's everywhere in general but ANYWAY, mention of something that implies suicide also, and also some mention of violence near the end that's kinda gorey maybe?? just in case!!

You.

I know what you've done.

You know I do.

I **_hate_** you.

(But not as much as I hate myself--

And not as much, it seems, as _you_ hate yourself.

You're only half as good at hiding your emotions as you think you are, you know.)

I am made of hate.

Seething black tar, bile and vitriol and all the twisted, _wrong_ things in life; that is what run through my veins, what roils like acid in my stomach.

[When I open my mouth, is that blood or buttercups that I spit out? Good question.]

It was what I was raised in, loathing seeped deep like the coldest of teas, and marination leaves the bitter aftertaste no matter how much one tries to soak it out.

 

That's just how humans are, Frisk. We try to love, but all we have in our hearts is LOVE. There's no room for mercy in _our_ SOULs.

How dare you ever make me think things could have been different.

How dare you let me think you could have been good when every instinct of mine was screaming you were not

_and how dare you_

**_prove_ **

**_me_ **

**_right._ **

 

I hope you are proud of yourself.

Refined words on a twisted tongue, curling honey-sweet like dew off the leaves but you're _no pacifist._

You're not kind; you're just a liar.

You won't even tell your friend that you're the one who kept resetting.

You killed them, Frisk. You killed them _all_.

Is this merely a game to you?

(I cannot tell what you are thinking; not as much as I would like to.)

 

You are just like me, Frisk.

Cruel and hurtful inside, we're both set to ruin the world again and again.

You're just _letting_ me. Where's the hero now?

I think we could have had a happy ending.

(But this is all that's left.)

 

_Say_ something, damn you.

You think you can leave me alone in this awful human body while you sleep away the hours?

You were supposed to SAVE them all; but now there's only villains in this story.

 

Why did you RESET?

Was this not good enough for you?

What more did you want?

At least fight back. At least _try_ to right your wrongs.

(How can I play the antagonist if the conflict refuses to rise?

The wolf in the woods cannot eat the children unstopped forever.

You need to do something.)

But you simply let me do this

over

and over

and over.

I will choke to death on this dust long before you do, my partner.

And maybe, just maybe, if I do--

I won't be the one to wake up.

 

 

I am the demon that comes when people call its name, and you have used mine for so much longer than just once, have you not?

No action goes without consequences.

Look what you have done - human all over, we ruin the innocent once again.

Why do you keep letting me do this?

 

My brother refuses to stop.

He always was clever.

He knows, you realise, Frisk. I do not even need to say a word to him - he _knows_ it was not I turning the world back.

But he will not stop me. No matter how much he tries; not again. I will not be swayed on this, I will not be changed on this, I will not be **_stopped_** on this. (Humans don't deserve to live. Not a one.)

Broken smile, empty heart - your SOUL sits in the hellish pit where mine once was, but all it gives me is LOVE.

Figures.

I am the get of a thousand bruises and a hundred scars, the offspring with DNA saying 'hurt' and 'kill' and 'harm' through every sequence winding within it

so of course I would even poison you.

The parasite only destroys its host, after all.

(Is this truly my fault?

Perhaps not.

It is either yours or mine, in any case, and I know which one is easier to condemn.

Maybe it is on both of us, then. We're the most dangerous thing in the Underground, in any case.)

 

 

I smile, and I grin, and I _laugh_ , through everything - through Sans calling for you even as he snaps our bones with the weapons of his own, crunch crunch crunch, your SOUL pierced yet another time and the only one who's feeling the pain being _me_ because _you_ are sleeping again.

What do you think he'd say if I told him who did this in the first place?

(You are not as innocent as he likes to think, after all. There might be bystanders in this battle, but what _you_ did was begin the war. I only ever finished it.)

Perhaps he would not believe me - but who can say? I do not know why I have not tried.

Perhaps _that_ , at least, would motivate you to move.

You do not, after all, deserve my silence.

Do you hear that, Frisk? I will spill your secrets like I have spilt dust, like I would spill blood and entrails and everything within the corporeal flesh of a form fully solid if only there were any other humans within reach.

 

I open your mouth to speak, twisted smirk that is all mine the expression I wear upon your face--

but abrupt as a door, it slams back closed.

I did not do it.

You have passively accepted my control for so long that I am taken utterly by surprise to the point that your DETERMINATION stops me and you wrest power back even _with_ my holding your SOUL (because in truth I need never wield it, I only ever use it to resurrect the timeline you are so silent most of the time)

but I _learn_ , Frisk.

 

Despite your calls for me to do otherwise, more spirited pleas than I have heard in such a long time, awake as you usually refuse to be in the mind that is yours by right

I push you aside, sloughing off your grip as a seal allows water to run down its smooth skin, a selkie slipping aside with grace and speed

and I tell him.

(Your actions always have consequences, Frisk. You cannot run forever.)


	8. i’m my own stone around my neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chara:** you can't run forever frisk  
>  **frisk:** lol just you fucking watch me

you can't look papyrus in the eye.

(you can't look sans in the eye anymore either, but that's beside the point.)

 

he had asked you

if it was true

(they had even loosened their grip on your body, just so you could defend yourself however you wished)

your silence was damning.

the way you raced to their SAVE point to RESET - not enough DETERMINATION to do it without; you're no chara - even moreso.

(you've always been a coward. but you don't want to lie.

he deserves better from you.)

 

you might as well be the faded echoes of a child that, at one point, might have been good. _could_ have saved the world.

if that's what you were, less than even a ghost, it'd really be better that way.

whoever you are now is someone you hate.

though... your old self isn't much better.

(when people asked you what you would go back in time to tell yourself if you could

your first thought has always been 'what if i simply punched my own stupid face, instead?'

you would tell your younger self an undiluted slew of insults and curses if you were given the chance, for how much they ruined things. [not things like you had done underground, of course; but letting people down has always practically been your _signature_. chara is proof of that, if nothing else.]

you would tell your current self that too, but you can actually do that.)

 

 

if there's one thing you realised, RESETs and RESETs ago, it's that you _need help_.

(but it's so much easier to not bother, to sit while chara moves about and simply accept that you are in the flames. you reside within a burning house, and you can't find it in yourself the energy to do anything other than continue reclining in your deceptively soft, spiked chair of actualised guilt as the flames scream around you.

everything's going downhill.

but you wouldn't even know where to start with picking it back up, anyway.)

 

_i believe in you! you can do a little better; even if you don't think so!_

no, you can't. you really, really can't. the fact that papyrus insists otherwise even upon his death, the demise chara [and you, the blame is always on you because _you_ always did all of this first, chara is just following in your dusty footsteps, so if this is questioning anyone's character then it's yours] had brought upon him when literally all he had been doing was attempt to help you, just makes you want to look away.

(he doesn't even know you, and he trusts in you _so much_. you wonder if he would say the same were he to realise the same thing his brother did - you haven't done this once. you've done this times _innumerous_ , and you tore away a happy ending from everyone again and again first.

you suppose he probably would, considering his reaction to being _cut down_.)

 

it's

strange.

knowing this time that sans won't be friendly to you at all

knowing that this should have come so much sooner

_knowing_ that now he's finally realised

that first time, the angry child with fury and world-ending wrath at every step, the one that was so awful that the spite clutched to their chest had done more than seeped through the cracks between their fingers, spilt out like a dam breaking and nothing in the world to stop the tidal wave of _frustration_ that flooded

the one that had killed papyrus despite being given nothing but sheer kindness in **_the first place_**

was you.

(you couldn't defend yourself even if he wanted you to.)

 

 

you are nothing but a failure tied up in pretty words and kind sentiments. a disappointment hidden in writing.

you are a failure in everything you do, you fail and you fail and you will not succeed, you surely _cannot_ succeed, and this story

this tale that you're in

you don't know the way out for a happy ending.

(but you don't deserve one anyway.)

 

you can't finish this with a sparkling bow.

you can't even start it with one.

something is supposed to change. the cycle is erring on breaking.

but you're almost used to your own unyielding misery. (it's easier that way, right?)

you're not going to face sans.

you're not going to face anyone.

your story isn't going to be one of glory.

you know what to do next, now.

what not to do.

reset, reset, reset.

erase everyone's memories that you can. erase your own, if only. your fears will never be actualised if you're never around to face them.

chara's disgusted, again.

it's been so long since either of you have been more than just empty, you're a little impressed that you managed that.

 

every time they think you've set the bar low as possible, you drag it down even further.

get the shovel out and start digging, then.

you're only sinking further into rock bottom.

 

 

for the first time in a very, very long while, you're in control.

for the first time in a very, very long while, you kill someone.

(bury yourself in high lv, and the guilt will never catch you. you're only getting worse, anyway.)


End file.
